


Sacrifices

by CatalenaMara



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:23:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalenaMara/pseuds/CatalenaMara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirk founds out exactly what Spock remembers after the fal-tor-pan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrifices

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the print fanzine Legacy Volume 1, July 2007, edited by Jenna Sinclair.  
> Beta & Thanks: With thanks to my editor, Jenna Sinclair, and my betas J S Cavalcante and Muriel Perun.  
> Thanks also to Lyrastar for the inspiration.

I. Ambassador Sarek’s Residence  
Vulcan

 

Cool air drifted across Kirk’s skin. The contrast between the ferocious heat less than a meter away and the oasis where he now stood was like a knife-slice, shocking in its sudden delineation of boundary.

A breeze rustled through the waneti bush, separating some of the tiny white blossoms from their stems and strewing them on the ground. From where Kirk stood in the gazebo, which was nestled in the furthest curve of Amanda’s enclosed garden, he could see the thin branches ripple in the hot wind. He remained safe in the shadows, protected from the fierceness of the late morning Vulcan sun. The cool air soothing his skin wasn’t simply the result of the shade the arched ceiling provided. Rather, the ceiling contained a cooling unit, providing a welcome respite from the heat that had voraciously sucked moisture from his skin, his lips, his eyes.

The unrelenting heat had stolen his tears as well.

His past, destroyed. His future, sacrificed.

He had always lived in the present. It was habit to continue doing so, since all other options were gone.

Dry-eyed, he kept his gaze focused on the doorway to Amanda’s private office. A mosaic pathway, gleaming crystals embedded in the grey and sand-beige flagstones, snaked its way from that doorway to where he stood. The path wound its way artfully close to carefully-placed native plants, yet it remained a thing separate from the expanse of red bare earth surrounding it, as careful in its definition of what it was as what it was not. Artificial, built to dissipate heat, it contained its own cooling unit to allow the comfortable passage of humans, able to almost completely dispel the furnace-blast of Vulcan summer air. Here, in the cool and shade of the gazebo, he could have been standing in a garden on Earth.

Amanda, her trim form gleaming in the whiteness of her veil and robes, walked toward him, her small hands carrying a laden tray. She’d refused his earlier offer of help with the tray; she’d sent him ahead when the comm bell rang.

He had paused at the tutelage room on his way to the outer door, had listened as the computer quizzed Spock, had heard Spock’s dispassionate answers.

He had watched for long moments, but Spock had never acknowledged his presence, and, finally, he’d remembered his original goal and gone outside.

Amanda joined him in the shade. Another gust of wind scattered white waneti blossoms across the gazebo’s floor. They sifted and moved around Amanda’s feet as she walked toward the table. She glanced down, then over to the parent plant. “Lovely, aren’t they? I’m glad to be here at home while they’re in bloom. I wasn’t here the last time. They won’t blossom again for another decade.”

She settled the tray on the white faux-stone table. Her hands efficiently opened the carrier box and removed an old-fashioned pitcher and two tall thick glasses.

She poured, and the clink of real ice rattled real glass. She smiled—a gesture as rare as rain on Vulcan, but it was forgivable here, alone, with him. “Have a seat, Jim, please.”

“Thank you.” Sitting down on the bench, he accepted the glass she handed him. He felt the ghost of some emotion as his hand closed around the cool solid glass. His mother had had a set of glasses like this, all those years ago on Earth. She had served lemonade then, in those long summer days. Usually, he’d gulped it down. He’d always been impatient in those days, eager to head right back into explorations and adventures, or even chores or tasks. He always wanted to be doing things, making plans or just running free for a few precious moments.

He’d always been impatient for the future.

Amanda’s glasses held iced tea, Bones’ favorite non-alcoholic drink. He wished, for a passing second, that the doctor was with them.

“I asked Spock to come see you. He didn’t see the logic of interrupting his studies. He will join us as soon as he completes the hyperdimensional physics module.” Her voice was calm. Her eyes betrayed pain.

“Do you think there’s anything left? Of the Spock we knew before?”

One small fingertip traced an abstract pattern on the tabletop. “I want to believe there is.”

“I watched him, at his studies. His memory seems excellent.”

“Yes. He remembers everything he learns. He spent some time last night discussing mathematical progressions and music theory. He’s studying Varese, Schoenburg, Cage, T’zerik, Sortel. He remembers the tiniest details—” Her voice broke; sudden tears appeared in her eyes. “But he has shown no interest in actually playing music. He hasn’t touched an instrument yet. I brought out his old lyre, and all he did was comment on where and how it was manufactured. He said that he’d chosen those specific Terran composers for further study because of their conscious attempt to remove subjectivity and emotional elements from music.”

“They tried to take emotion out of music? You’re joking.”

“No. I’m afraid not. There is a long tradition here, of course, of analyzing music in strictly mathematical terms. Before…Spock preferred other composers. He would never have admitted it, but all his favorite music was, frankly…filled with emotion. Now…even with music, he’s focused on logic, mathematics, facts, figures…but no feeling. T’Lar, of course, approved his study choices.”

He covered her hand with his own. Her fingers went still.

She drew in a deep breath. “What a miracle this all is.” She withdrew her hand from Kirk’s touch and offered him a tentative smile. “Thank you for giving me back my son.”

“I wish….” He stopped. I wish I had been able to give you all of him back….

“I know.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I’m angry with myself, for feeling ungrateful. For being greedy. He’s alive. But I want more. I want my son back. All of him. Not this perfect Vulcan shell. Master T’Lar expressed her pleasure with his progress. She believes he will be able to remember everything about his life…before.” Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. “She said they were most careful to search for all his memories. But it wouldn’t have been logical for them to search for his emotions, would it?”

“Do you think she would—deliberately—have ignored that part of him?”

“I don’t know, Jim.” She stared at the table’s surface. “You do have to know what you’re looking for in order to find it. But it was their opportunity to turn him into a perfect Vulcan.” She blinked, then brushed her fingertips against the back of his hand. “I’ll go see if he’s finished with his study module.” She didn’t bother disguising the roughness in her voice.

After she walked away, after she disappeared back inside the main house, last night’s dream settled around him again. He didn’t usually remember his dreams. When he did they were disconnected wisps of image that dissolved as soon as his day began. But this one…. He did not have to close his eyes to see its reality. It was as if the dream images dragged at his footsteps, embracing him in their own reality.

It was as if some part of him were still dwelling in that dream.

He heard the door open and realized he’d slumped over the table, as if ready to embrace sleep, embrace that dream and its glimpse of a better reality again. He lifted his head and saw that Spock had stepped out onto the pathway. Kirk stood as he approached, but Spock hesitated at the edge of the shade, hands behind his back. As he stood in full sunlight, his face haggard and pale, his expression revealed nothing more than polite disinterest and a mechanical recognition of Kirk’s presence.

Kirk felt he had been catalogued, along with the table, the chairs, the pitcher and glasses on the table, along with Amanda’s carefully tended plants lining the terracotta-colored wall beyond, living out their brief hours in the fierceness of the Vulcan sun, their precise placement a reproach to the disordered petals drifting across the gazebo’s floor.

Without Amanda’s presence, alone with Spock for the first time since before he…died…. Suddenly the heat shimmer in the air seemed to affect his vision. He blinked away tears and strove against the sense of unreality. And yet the vision that had gripped him only hours before seized him again.

What was real? What was not? This man, standing before him, the embodiment of every miracle he could ever have desired, and yet….

“It’s good to see you,” Kirk said.

Spock continued to stare at him, apparently concluding that no response was required of him.

“Spock, I know you remember me. You called me ‘Jim.’ But do you remember anything else?”

“My recollection of past events appears to be intact, if not always accessible. T’Lar and the other healers have melded with me and have assured me that my memories, logic functions and reasoning capacity are intact. I must now master the process of relearning how to access all the data.”

The gazebo seemed suddenly much colder than it had before. Kirk’s mouth went dry. He poured a fresh glass of tea and pushed it toward the opposite side of the table.

“Please.” He gestured to the table, the inviting glass of tea, the waiting chair. Spock continued to watch him, no expression disturbing the lines of his face. And then it was as if Kirk were back on the Enterprise, the ship whole again, and yet incomplete, ready for her new mission against V’ger. Then, as now, a familiar stranger stood before him. Then, the stranger had recently been an acolyte of Gol, divided from him by a space of years and pain. Refusing to take a seat. Even then.

“Please. Have a seat.”

Spock sat with robotic precision. Kirk took his glass of tea and sipped it and Spock copied his actions.

“How are your lessons coming along?”

“They are progressing quite well. I reviewed Teppleton’s Theories of Hyperdimensional physics this morning, and noted and cataloged, compared and contrasted the botanical specimens of Kuttman’s World with those of Terra.” Spock droned on, detailing one scientific paper after another. Kirk watched him in silence, fascinated by the movement of Spock’s lips, the barely discernible traces of interest and curiosity in those brown eyes, which had once regarded him with such warmth. Such love.

Spock’s hands were steepled before him in a familiar gesture; so little a thing, and yet so much. If his body remembered that, then perhaps….

Spock stopped speaking and waited in unmoving silence. Only his watchful eyes and the tiny motions of his body as he breathed betrayed the fact that he was alive and not some wonderfully lifelike statue made to amaze Kirk with its close resemblance to the man who had once been his lover. An android would be more convincing.

Tell him…. A voice echoed in his ears; he blinked, then squeezed his eyes tightly shut against pain. But the image—the man from his dream was with him, healthy, whole, smiling. Tell him. He needs to know.

“I dreamed about a starship captain last night….”

He hadn’t intended to speak. It had just been a dream, that’s all; no reason to disturb his daylight hours. And yet, wasn’t Spock’s presence seated across the table from him also its own sort of dream? A dream a madman might conceive? But hadn’t he witnessed miracles lesser and greater than this in all those years on the Enterprise? All the energy beings, gods and illusions, all the mysteries of each new world, and the truths which lay obscured beyond.

Tell him…. He’d always trusted his gut instincts. He trusted them now. He continued speaking. “This captain’s crew—they were all cadets. So very young. They all looked up to him, trusted him. And then the unthinkable happened.”

A remote curiosity appeared on Spock’s austere face.

“To save his crew from certain death he sacrificed himself. The effects of the radiation…. He must have known the consequences. And yet he made that choice.” Kirk cleared his throat against the roughness in his voice. “It was the right choice. He saved the lives of all those cadets, but at tragic cost to his own.”

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” Spock intoned.

“Yes. Quite logical. As officers we know we may be called upon to make those decisions, those sacrifices.” That was all by the book: Terran, Vulcan, what did it matter? The needs of the many. The needs of the one. “I looked at the starship captain’s ruined body. And then he—somehow—stepped outside himself. And then there were two of him. One man was collapsed, destroyed. The other stood there—healthy. Whole.”

Spock was studying him as if he were a representative of some newly discovered species whose behavior had not as yet been catalogued. Was there anything in those eyes which might be intrigued by the unexpected, the disorderly, the illogical? But the brown depths revealed nothing. Perhaps those eyes concealed nothing at all.

“The starship captain looked directly at me. He said, ‘I have a message for my friend. For Spock.’”

One of Spock’s eyebrows twitched upward. The gesture lacerated Kirk with hope; he leaned forward, desperate for more evidence that his friend lay somewhere buried beneath that blank surface.

“I am acquainted with the facts of my death.” Kirk shuddered at this bitter marvel, that Spock’s voice could remain uninflected even when discussing the impossible. “I had assumed you were speaking of that incident.”

“No.” The word escaped Kirk, a slight breath of air released into the stillness. “No.” The man in his dream smiled at him, crystal blue eyes filled with fire and joy. “I dreamed of Christopher Pike. He wanted me to give you this message. He said, ‘Tell Spock it’s been good visiting with you. I’m enjoying our conversations. But it’s time for you to go home.’”

Spock folded his hands together and looked at Kirk with no trace of expectation in his eyes. “There is no logic in dreams.”

“No.” Kirk spoke past the stone in his heart. “Of course not.”

“Fleet Captain Pike is dead. The Talosians sent word to Starfleet Command on Stardate 1101.06.”

“Yes. I know.”

“Admiral,” Spock said carefully, his baritone voice and utterly precise pronunciation cutting through Kirk like a laser. “There was a full complement of cadets and personnel on that ship, all of whom survived. Captain Pike did his duty.”

“And all those lives are valuable. Precious. How much we honor the sacrifices of good people—and how little we truly understand what it means. I lost too many good crewmembers over the years.” He found he had to look away from Spock’s indifferent gaze. “Until I finally lost myself.”

The silence stretched out for a moment, two. Kirk swallowed against the obstruction in his throat and looked up. Spock was watching him with clear puzzlement, but no understanding.

“Do you remember when you took Captain Pike to Talos IV?”

“I recall the incident.”

“Do you remember what you did? What you were willing to sacrifice to save him?”

“Affirmative.”

“Do you remember how you felt?”

Spock went very still, eyes blank, and Kirk was suddenly reminded of the hesitation in a computer when it was processing large amounts of unknown data. A sudden stab of pain flashed through him, images passing in his own mind, almost too fast to process.

—Rayna Kapec—

—Rayna’s face, startled, just before she fell. “I…was not human. Now I…love….”

He had destroyed Rayna with emotion. He suddenly, desperately, wanted to take back what he had just said. I want to awaken you, not destroy you.

But Spock had focused his attention on Kirk again, and Kirk could see by the lack of expression on Spock’s face that nothing had changed.

“Negative,” Spock said flatly.

“I remember how I felt.” Kirk’s fingers curled into fists. He consciously relaxed his hands again and wrapped them around the tea glass, which was wet with condensation. Spock was not a machine. Spock was flesh, blood, bone, and inside him, somewhere, were the seeds of who he had been before. Making him feel wouldn’t destroy him; Kirk was certain of it. “But it’s hard to explain what I felt, then. I felt too much.” He studied Spock’s face. “But I came to terms with all of that, in the months that followed. Because, you see, I realized how much you were capable of feeling for another. You were willing to give up everything for Pike—your career, and quite possibly your life. It could easily have gone that way, you know.”

“I recall that I did calculate the odds that Starfleet Command would not accept my actions. As you recall, I did not confide in you. It would not have been logical to expose you to the risk of the death penalty.”

“That’s when I began to understand why you did what you did. But your logic was flawed.”

Both eyebrows rose slightly. Encouraged, Kirk continued, “Despite what you said to me at the time, it wasn’t logical to do what you did for Pike. I already knew you concealed so very much beneath your calm exterior. I hoped that you would come to feel much more for me. And you did. Then, there was no need to talk to you about Talos IV. No need to tell you how jealous I was of Captain Pike.”

Spock’s brows contracted into the tiniest of frowns. “Jealousy. An emotion often associated with sexual possessiveness. I never had sexual relations with Christopher Pike. You had no cause for that emotion. I do not recall being aware of any such emotion on your part during the years in which we engaged in sexual relations.”

Kirk felt like a fist had slammed against his chest. You remember everything, don’t you? And yet you remember nothing. “Emotions are more complicated than textbook answers.” It must have been an errant breeze from the air conditioning unit then that brushed against Kirk’s shoulder, feeling for an instant like the touch of another’s encouraging hand. And then, for an instant, the sensation of someone whispering in his ear: Tell him everything.

He shook his head. “There was more to the dream. I realized we were seated at a conference table. You, Captain Pike and myself. And then I looked around and saw the table wasn’t in a room, but set in the middle of a forest clearing. We were surrounded by tall trees, giant ferns. We weren’t alone. A sehlat was sitting a few feet away, watching us. And Aaron Grayson was also seated at the table.”

“Aaron Grayson, born Stardate 1026.06, died Stardate 1102.57. Last position, Dean of Multi-Species Ethnology at Starfleet Academy, San Francisco division, Earth. Most noted for—”

“Your grandfather.” Kirk interrupted Spock’s data flow. “Do you remember the last time we saw him?”

Spock’s brow furrowed into the faintest trace of a frown. “Stardate 1102.01. We had dinner at his residence. We discussed the interdisciplinary approach to xeno-anthropology and xeno-pharmacology—”

“That, among other things. We sat by his fireplace and enjoyed a fine wine. You had a glass, as well.”

“The consumption of alcohol is an illogical act.”

“You commented on the fine bouquet and flavor.”

“That is true.”

“In my dream, Aaron raised a glass in toast. Captain Pike and you raised your glasses as well. I looked for my glass, to join the toast, but I couldn’t find it. I realized we’d been in the middle of a conversation. But it was as if I’d suddenly woken up and realized I’d forgotten what I was supposed to be saying. And you and Pike and Aaron—the three of you kept talking. You all turned to me, clearly waiting for me to say something. But I got up and walked away. I walked into the desert. But it got too hot, and I turned back. Pike and Aaron were gone. Your sehlat was gone. The table was gone. You were standing, surrounded by those giant ferns, those tall trees of Genesis. You were naked.” And as young as you were when I first met you, Kirk thought, and whole in a way you never were in those years. Whole, as you were in those years we shared after V’ger.

Spock was watching him intently, brown eyes filled with puzzlement as Kirk continued, “You stood there, utterly unself-conscious. You smiled at me.”

Kirk caught his breath at his memory of Spock’s dream smile—natural and free, without any attempt at Vulcan dignity, propriety or concealment. “You smiled at me….” That glorious smile, unguarded, open, joyous. “You’ve smiled like that in the past, but rarely. I’ve treasured each and every one of those smiles.”

Spock stared at him.

“You held out your hand to me. I tried to reach you. But I was standing in the desert and couldn’t cross over to where you were. There was something between us, some invisible barrier I couldn’t pass. The dream ended there.”

Spock’s eyes lost their focus. “You always leave gardens.” The words, flat and disassociated, escaped his lips on a sigh. He blinked once, then focused back on Kirk. Now there was a trace of recognizable expression on his face. Confusion.

“If there were only some further place I could take you where you could be whole.” There wasn’t enough room in Kirk’s words for his pain; his throat closed before he could say any more. He picked up his glass and took a sip of the unsweetened tea.

Spock stood up. “It is clear that I require further lessons.” He turned. He walked away, back into the sunlight, his sure mechanical strides taking him rapidly to Amanda’s doorway. And then inside.

Kirk found he was standing, with no memory of getting to his feet. The glass, slick with condensation, slipped through his fingers and fell.

Unbroken, unshattered, the glass hit the floor, its contents spilling in a quick stain on the tiles, then rolled out past the demarcation of shadow and light. Kirk stared at it without conscious awareness of time. The moisture that clung to it quickly vanished, evaporated by the unforgiving Vulcan sun.

Amanda was with him again. He didn’t recall her approach, but he allowed her to settle him back into his chair. A tremulous smile tugged at her lips. Her small hand took his and squeezed it tightly.

“He remembers more every day. Learns more.”

“It’s like programming a machine.”

“You had so much more of him than I—” Amanda bit off her words. He squeezed her hand, in implicit forgiveness for her bitter words. She smiled at him ruefully. “What we’ve both lost….”

“He’s alive. That’s what matters. He’s alive.”

He stared back at the house, at that firmly closed door. Spock would be back inside, back at his computer, back to the comfort of facts and figures, his logic untainted by anything as difficult to categorize as love.

“That’s all that matters,” he whispered again.

 

II. Admiral Kirk’s Residence  
San Francisco, Earth

 

Spock contemplated his hands. Light poured through the glass walls of the solarium on the topmost floor of Admiral Kirk’s apartment. The hard white light illuminated the pattern of pores in his skin, highlighting imperfections, delineating with contrast and shadow the structure of his hands, the muscles and ligaments and bones beneath the skin. He spent long moments contemplating each individual finger, then turned his hands over in order to inspect his palms in equally attentive detail.

His living body was a miracle. He was a miracle; or so the humans said. The scientific details were quite fascinating. There was, of course, a logical explanation for everything. Even his own resurrection.

The heat in the solarium was most pleasant. He closed his eyes and turned his face to where the sunlight poured in. Its rays washed down around him; he savored their touch. The glass walls clarified Terra’s sun into an approximation of a Terran desert in summer. His body knew this heat, drew sustenance from it. It was a comfort, this familiarity, in an otherwise alien sea of sensation. Outside, though a bright day for San Francisco, it would be cold; he would have to wear a coat.

He spent a great deal of time in the solarium when the admiral was away.

A field of lupine and poppy marched to the corners of the chamber, their purple and brilliant red-orange splashes an incongruous contrast to the scene outside. All the windows displayed the San Francisco cityscape. Inside the solarium, he was surrounded by a perfect representation of the Northamerican Sonoran desert.

He could have chosen to have the windows display a desert scene to complete the illusion, but he had no need for such falsehoods. The heat and the scent from the plant life was sufficient for his requirements.

He inhaled. The earth smell of ferocactus wislizeni mingled with the Vulcan tang of Ka-ran-zhi in a pleasing combination. He felt the passage of the scented air down into his lungs; he inhaled deeply until his lungs were filled.

This chamber was a fine example of the holographic technology they had discovered on the shore leave planet. Spock recalled authoring a paper on the subject of this technology. Not surprisingly, the first applications humans had put it to were military uses, which he found dismaying, and then medical science purposes, of which he approved. After that, humans had taken great pleasure in using this technology for the same frivolous pursuits that the inhabitants of the shore leave planet did.

Kirk had derived much enjoyment from programming the scenario for this room, he recalled. The previous year they’d spent several days taking a “vacation” in the actual Sonoran desert. Later, Kirk surprised him with this facsimile as a gift. Spock had pointed out the illogic of mingling Vulcan and Terran plantlife together.

“It’s to remind you of home,” Kirk said.

Puzzled, he replied, “But this is my home.”

Kirk just grinned and kissed him.

The need for play. Most illogical.

He stopped breathing for a moment, savoring that sensation as well, and then exhaled.

From his position, kneeling on the stone pathway, he considered the interesting sensation of the uneven surface against his shins and feet.

He shivered suddenly. Kirk was thinking of him.

It passed, a momentary aberration. These moments were happening more frequently now. In the evenings, when Kirk returned from Starfleet Command, the sensations were more intense. Kirk yearned to cross the boundaries between them, and was frustrated and sorrowful that he could not. His new awareness of Kirk’s emotions left him helpless, uncertain how to proceed. Thus the hours of attempted meditation during Kirk’s absence, but while he had been successful in achieving the form, the substance had eluded him utterly.

He ran his hands along the fabric of his meditation robe. It was not, of course, the black robe with which he was most familiar. That garment, torn and ragged, had been recycled back on Vulcan.

This robe had been a gift from his mother. He had kept it in Kirk’s—in their—San Francisco apartment.

He remembered it clearly. It was made from a combination of Terran silk and Vulcan plaincloth. His hands recalled the texture. And his eyes recalled the color: matte black interwoven with a subtly shimmering blue.

Earlier today, after an unsuccessful attempt at meditation, he had decided he needed his robe. It was illogical, of course, to require a specific object as an aid to a mental discipline, but he concluded that, given his failure at achieving these mental disciplines, perhaps conforming to a familiar ritual would help.

He’d looked for it inside the guest room closet. After they returned to Earth, Kirk suggested Spock might feel more comfortable in that room, rather than in the room they shared before Genesis. He’d transferred all of Spock’s clothing into that room.

The robe wasn’t there. Odd. Every other item of clothing he currently possessed was there. Why was this one article missing?

There were times now when it seemed he did not think at all, merely acted. That instinct led him back to Kirk’s closet—their closet, in the time before….

Kirk’s closet door slid open. The robe was inside. He took it out.

It smelled of Kirk. Unusual. Kirk never wore this garment. It would not have fit him properly, and in any event, Kirk wasn’t given to this sort of contemplation.

He opened it fully, spreading the front panels as if they were wings. Then he crushed it to his face, burying his head in the fabric, and in that darkness, in the dry caress of cloth, he breathed in Kirk’s scent, infusing, as it did, every centimeter of the interior of the robe.

Moments later, he put it on, letting Kirk’s scent envelope him in an invisible embrace.

Now, he ran his hands down the robe’s side panels. The cold had entered him again, a chill of the spirit and not of the flesh. To combat it he threw off the robe, made it into a bed upon the hard pathway, and lay down naked, soaking in the intense rays of the magnified Terran sun.

He closed his eyes against the light, and allowed himself just to be. For endless, eternal moments he lay here, simply savoring the sun and the warmth. And then at last he gave thought to the process he was experiencing.

Something was happening to him: something inexorable, impossible to resist. He had no more perspective than a leaf being carried downstream to an unseen ocean. Yet, like a fetus already in the birth passage, he was becoming aware of the inevitability of change: of air and light and separate existence.

This process had been happening for some time. It had come into him slowly, spirit into new flesh, his cells yearning for and welcoming his soul like the desert thirsts for rain.

And as in the desert, the first few drops of rain seemed more than enough. Every morning he awoke, believing himself to be whole and complete, and every day came the fresh realization: Yes. This is who I am.

But as each day proceeded, he would catch glimpses of some further shore, some missing piece of himself, revealed by the surprise or dismay in Jim’s eyes. So much of who he had been remained unattached and separate from who he was now. This daily revelation—that he had yet to attain wholeness, that he was still fragmented, that he was still incomplete—caused emotion.

Painful emotion.

Before, he had not cared. Now, these revelations had begun to matter.

And so he had focused his attention on his lack of wholeness, seeking out each shattered, incomplete piece of himself, seeking the web of connections between these fragments. As they linked together they blazed flaming and bright, then their light softened and achieved a steady glow as each connection assumed its place in the pattern of the whole. Each resurrection brought pain, as this light only illuminated the darkness of what remained absent.

Despite the pain he pursued these visions, attempting to seize them and encompass them within himself. Elusive, they flashed bright colors, brief fragments of face, of touch, of taste. He reached for these images but his hands always passed through, the memories seemingly tangible until actually touched, impervious yet imperceptible, present in their absence, mocking him with what they revealed and what they concealed.

It was as if the glass that had separated him, blind and dying, from his friend were still present and solid and impassable, and his own self still lay somewhere beyond, lost in some further clarity of vision he had yet to attain.

His flesh had cooled again. Opening his eyes, he saw that the light outside had shifted perceptibly. Several hours had passed. Night was approaching. Kirk would be home soon.

He got up and wrapped the robe around himself, once again comforted by the way Kirk’s scent still clung to the fabric. That, too, was illogical. Why should he require comfort? Why receive comfort on such a basic, animal level? He must contemplate this phenomenon further.

Barefoot, he walked downstairs to the next level and went into Kirk’s room. Neutral carpeting covered the floor; he walked without making any sound. He focused on the feeling of the carpet beneath his feet, then on the gentle movement of the air through the ventilation system, analyzing each sensation.

He paused, surveying the room. He’d certainly seen it before, many times. He could accurately count the number of nights he had spent here, with Kirk, lying with him in that large bed. Why then did the room and all its furnishings now appear new? Only recently, all these objects had been devoid of all but intellectual meaning. And now…now….

A unit made from dark natural wood covered most of one wall. The vidscreen sprang to life at a simple command. Federation news highlights: the newest starship was heading out on its first five year mission. A long shot revealed the faces of the young crewmembers, all of them earnest, practically vibrating with pride and eagerness, ready for all the new discoveries, the adventures and renown that would await them.

None of them was ready for death, and yet he knew—they all knew—many would not return from this assignment.

He remembered mustering aboard Pike’s Enterprise; he remembered the anticipation he had felt, the certainty that he had put his past irrevocably behind him.

As it turned out, that had not been entirely true.

The vidscreen went quiet at his command, and he slowly turned, taking in the rest of the room.

The bed. The coverings were a deep dark blue, shot through with gold. Kirk had liked the symbolism. He recalled approving of the choice, though the emotion behind his statement was now lost to him.

He brushed his left index finger across the bed cover. Cool, deceptively smooth. The thread pattern rubbed against the ridges and whorls of his fingertip.

The bed was militarily precise. And yet—

—yet, disorder. The cover, flung to the floor in careless disregard. The sheet, a crumpled mess—

And the admiral—

and the captain—

and Kirk—

—Jim had touched him—yes—

—had touched him, skin-to-skin, and Jim’s hands, and Jim’s mouth—

—damp, smooth human skin against his own, and need—sexual need—

Spock stared, astonished, at the bed, its pristine surface undisturbed by recent passion.

He had a sudden desire to lie upon that bed, to curl up into it and seek familiarity—

Illogical. He snatched his fingertip away from the cover; he clasped his hands behind his back.

“How do you feel?” his mother had asked.

“I do not know how,” he whispered to the empty room.

But that statement was becoming less true. He had told his father, I feel fine, and he had meant it then, but had he fully understood his words? He had thought so, at the time.

He wrapped his arms around himself and stood motionless between the bed and the wall-unit. Information was demanding admittance to his mind.

Like an object that had been frozen and then suddenly experienced thaw, he felt bereft of support. He turned slowly, studying each object that the room contained, and the bed, and the wall-unit, the closet and the clothing it contained all clamored with more information than he was prepared to absorb.

Calm. Focus. He turned again, surveying the wall-unit.

There were objects of emotional significance placed on its shelves. He moved closer and studied various framed holographic images of himself, both alone and with the admiral.

There were other images, as well. In one, McCoy held his granddaughter in his arms, and the expression on the doctor’s face displayed even more emotion than usual. Another showed Sulu receiving a medal of commendation. There were objects of various kinds, made from glass or wood or ceramics. Each object held memories, perfectly encapsulated bits of data. He recalled when and where each item had been obtained, why it had been retained. Now the cold clear wall that lay between what he still owned—his memories—and what he no longer possessed—their significance—seemed thinner somehow, as if what lay beyond wished entrance.

He was afraid.

And that was…illogical.

“How do you feel?” his mother had asked.

He had no answer.

Finally, he picked up two small objects. Their cold weight filled his hands. He wished their simple touch could give him answers to all his unformed questions, but their mute presence seemed to somehow burn his skin. He held them tightly, for all that, and carried them downstairs into what seemed now safer territory: the main sitting room.

He arranged the objects before him and sank down into the meditation pose.

It was difficult to look at them. He could not analyze why. But it was important that he do so and, with effort, he focused his attention on the holographic model of the Enterprise.

The Enterprise, flamed to oblivion in the evolving atmosphere of Genesis.

The image shimmered in its perfection, trapped inside its frame, and yet it was as three dimensional, as real, as if he were viewing it through an observation window on a spaceport. Kirk’s Enterprise. Pike’s Enterprise.

He ran a finger along the frame.

His home. His home, for most of his adult life. Now utterly destroyed.

He could count the years he had spent aboard this ship to the second. He could describe in exacting detail the materials with which it had been constructed and then refurbished. None of these facts required any emotional component. Why, then, were his hands shaking?

He set the model down. He turned his attention to the other object.

This, unaccountably, was even more difficult to pick up, more difficult to gaze at. It was a simple portrait holo of a smiling young man.

David Marcus.

Still on his knees, he gazed at the image, into the young man’s eyes. All attempts at meditation were useless. The shattered places inside him shifted, fractured again. Everything felt broken, useless, lost. There were no longer any guideposts of logic or rationality to guide him. The image promised eternity. The young man was dead.

After some unspecified period of time he realized two things: that Kirk had returned from the Admiralty and was standing before him, and that his own face was wet.

Kirk dropped to his knees before him. Odd, how his vision blurred, so that Kirk’s face seemed to waver and dance, like heat haze in the desert.

“Spock! Are you all right?” Cool human fingers touched his face and gently brushed away the moisture.

He touched the portrait. “You sacrificed so much. Was it worth it?”

Kirk’s hands dug into his shoulders. “Never doubt that. Never.” Kirk’s face was so close that his every breath gusted over Spock’s skin.

“I am incomplete.”

“You are everything you need to be.”

“I am damaged,” Spock persisted. “Your son—your ship—”

“My ship was lost to me anyway. David….” Kirk paused. “I don’t measure the value of one life against another.”

“You sacrificed everything of importance to you—and yet you had no way of knowing if there would be anything to find on Genesis. What did you hope to achieve?”

“I had to do it.”

“It was irrational.”

“It worked.”

“But your son—“

“None of that is your fault, Spock!”

Spock flinched, and he saw that Kirk noted his reaction. Kirk drew in a deep breath. “I’ve always been willing to take risks. I’ve always known there are consequences. I know you understand that. You’ve taken the same sort of chances yourself. And you’ve been willing to face the consequences. You were willing to face your own….” Kirk’s voice trailed off.

Spock shuddered, and Kirk’s arms were around him, holding him tight. The touch of Kirk’s hands, Kirk’s breath on his skin was like life, like rain falling on the desert. He wound his arms around Kirk’s waist, he rested his head against Kirk’s shoulder, and then it was so easy, so natural to lift his head up and over to where his lips met Kirk’s mouth.

There were no words.

Kirk brushed his lips against Spock’s but didn’t open his mouth. Spock cradled Kirk’s face in both of his hands, feeling the sparking electricity of the points of contact between them. Life surged through him—skin, muscle, blood, bone—energy filled him. With one smooth motion he stood, lifting Kirk to his feet as well, and pressed his body against Kirk’s in one long sensuous rub.

Kirk’s eyes, so close to him, changed, and he saw and named it all: longing, hesitation, concern, fear. Desire. Love.

“Are you ready for this?” Kirk’s voice was low.

He had no words. His arms encircled Jim’s back and then he reached to unfasten Jim’s jacket. He threw it to one side, tore off his own robe and tossed that away as well. The apartment’s air caressed his skin; the flame of need burned all the brighter in its cool touch. He was hard, fully erect, desperately hungry. Starving.

Jim pulled him close, his touch still gentle, speaking more of love than desire. “It’s all right,” Jim whispered. Spock found he was shaking, trembling violently in the strong circle of Jim’s arms. Jim continued to whisper to him, soothing, gentling words as he led him up the stairs to their bedroom.

Once there, Jim stripped the rest of his own clothing off quickly and allowed Spock to pick him up, to place him on the bed. Spock pressed his body against Jim’s and kissed Jim’s face, his lips, his eyes, his ears. Voracious, he mapped out with mouth and hands every inch of the beloved human body, so familiar, so strange. Ignoring his own need, he sucked in Jim’s erect cock, desperately suckling it, thrilled with Jim’s encouraging touch on his head, his shoulders. Jim’s smell and taste were both hunger and satisfaction, as were Jim’s cries of pleasure, his gasped words of encouragement.

Jim arched up off the bed. Liquid burst in his mouth. He swallowed, swallowed again, feeding on Jim as if this act alone could grant him new life.

“Easy…” Jim gently pushed his head back. Spock, uncertain, looked up the length of Jim’s body. What he saw in the other man’s eyes brought him to lie against Jim’s side.

Jim turned and clasped him close. His own stiff erection poked against Jim’s hip. Jim smiled into his eyes, and with sure, knowing fingers clasped Spock’s cock.

He heard himself cry out as everything inside him exploded into white ecstasy. Afterwards, Jim placed gentle kisses along the side of his face, and he turned toward the soft caresses. He was aware of something more—something delicate and ephemeral reweaving between them; something reconnecting them, working its way around the damaged, torn remnants of what had been there before.

Jim gathered him up in his arms. He was trembling again, but Jim’s hands moved in calming circles on his back. “I love you,” Jim whispered, and then he said it again, and again, and at each repetition Spock calmed even further until finally he slipped into sleep.

He woke several times during the night, each time emerging from a blur of dreams of broken images of the Enterprise, of David Marcus. The dreams were accompanied by intense feelings of despair, and sorrow, and regret. How odd, not to sleep straight through the night. How odd, to dream, and to attach significance to these dreams.

He awoke once and found Kirk watching him, his gaze intent and complex, his every feature revealed by the dim light coming in through the half-opaqued windows. Kirk’s face softened in a smile. Spock reached out to caress his face, then paused, suddenly fearful that his hand would encounter, not the warmth of Kirk’s skin, but the cold hardness of glass, separating them forever.

Kirk smiled at him encouragingly. He dared to reach past that final distance. He touched Kirk’s face. Kirk covered Spock’s hand with his own.

Spock shut his eyes against the perplexing mix of emotions that roiled his mind and allowed himself to experience the simple sensations of his body as Kirk slowly ran his hands along his skin. Those soft, gentle caresses soothed him back into a restless sleep.

And still he dreamed. I-Chaya rumbled in enjoyment as Spock dug his fingers into the animal’s soft fur. “Your mother worries about you,” Aaron Grayson said, and offered a toast with a wine glass. “Please talk to her. Soon.” Christopher Pike’s life support chair lay abandoned among the trees. Pike himself was standing nearby, with one arm around Vina’s waist. He gave Spock an easy, joyous smile. “You stayed too long. It wasn’t feasible for part of you to be here, another part there. It’s all right. We’ll talk again. We’ll all talk again.” And Pike, though he appeared to be standing in the middle of a forest, nevertheless looked at Kirk’s sleeping body, sprawled against their blue sheets, the two realities melding and blending together. “But not for quite some time, I think. You both like to beat the odds.”

He awoke with a sudden gasp. His heart was pounding rapidly in his side. Beside him, Kirk was deeply asleep, and Spock was suddenly assaulted with a feeling of love and tenderness so powerful it brought tears to his eyes.

He blinked away the image before him now, of Pike disappearing into the forest with Vina at his side. Suddenly Kirk’s words were with him, knives slashing his flesh to the bone.

“There was no need to talk to you about Talos IV. No need to tell you how jealous I was of Captain Pike.”

Before, he had taken pleasure in the exacting nature of his memory. Now, as images from his past unreeled themselves in pitiless detail, each one freighted with pain, that accuracy revealed itself to be a curse.

He was seated on the plain sleeping bench designed specifically for prisoners. Mendez—the illusion of Mendez—had, after his arrival on the Enterprise, immediately consigned Spock to the brig. And though he had known Mendez was an illusion—knew much of what was to come would be an illusion—only now, trapped behind the force field under the watchful guard of two security officers, had he begun to appreciate how very real it had all become.

He stood at attention at the first sound of familiar footsteps approaching along the corridor.

Kirk stopped squarely in front of the door to the brig, his anger and pain a palpable thing, the force of his emotions leaping through the energy barrier that separated them.

Spock stared straight ahead, his body stiff in the formal military pose, tense against the expected recriminations.

Kirk remained silent for a moment, but his eyes spoke for him, and each change of expression on Kirk’s face lacerated Spock’s soul.

Kirk’s voice had been gentle at first. “Why, Spock? Can you tell me why you did this? I need to understand. I want to help you.”

“Sir, I cannot explain.”

“I’d like an explanation, Mister.”

“Sir, I cannot explain.” He concentrated on the feel of his hands behind his back, tightening his fingers until the bones ground together, focusing on that particular pain. But that hurt was nowhere near harsh enough to cancel out the agony in Kirk’s eyes.

Kirk’s voice had changed, becoming demanding, then angry, then cold with the pain of betrayal, but to each of his questions Spock had replied, “Sir, I cannot explain.”

Kirk stood there a moment longer, fire and anger blazing in his eyes. It was only then that Spock appreciated the true difficulty of the course upon which he was embarked. It was only then that he truly understood he would need to feel every painful moment of this ordeal.

Spock squeezed his eyes shut, demanding the images vanish, then started at a touch on his shoulder.

Jim was awake, he realized, and watching him.

“Are you all right?” Jim asked.

But he was lost, trapped in the confusion of dream and memory. “I do not know,” he whispered.

“Can you tell me what you’re thinking?”

“How could you forgive me? After Talos IV? After what I did?”

Jim’s eyes widened in surprise and shock. “I’m sorry I brought that up—back on Vulcan. I don’t know why I said what I did. That dream I had was so vivid….”

“I had a dream. Just now.” Spock swallowed. Why was it difficult to speak? “But dreams have no logic.”

“No.” Jim attempted a smile. “No. They don’t. What did you dream of?”

“Christopher Pike.”

“Did he say anything?”

“I seem to recall….” His brows drew together. Captain Pike had smiled at him; yes, that he recalled. It was almost as if he could see him now, standing there, in this room. The look in his blue eyes—and then his former captain had waved and turned away. Had he spoken? “I don’t remember. He smiled. And then….” But Pike’s image vanished, as if it had been transported irrevocably elsewhere.

“Spock, Talos IV doesn’t matter. I forgave you years ago. Remember what I said to you, back on Vulcan? What happened made me understand you more fully than I ever had before. And I wondered then if I’d be worthy of such loyalty.”

Jim was caressing him, running his fingertips along Spock’s upper arm, and suddenly Spock realized that Jim hungered as much as he did for any contact between their flesh. “You were always worthy of all my loyalty.” He shut his eyes, for what had been easy, in the years after V’ger, was suddenly difficult again. “And my love.”

He heard Jim’s quick intake of breath, but he kept his eyes closed. It was suddenly too intense, all this emotion.

“Do you know why you suddenly started remembering—feeling—now?”

“I do not know. It is as if I am waking after a long sleep. I always remembered everything. But there was no meaning in my memories.”

“I love you,” Jim said, and pulled him close. Eyes closed, he settled into Jim’s embrace. For an instant he was back in his dream, and in that other landscape his eyes were open, and all was clear. He was reaching out for Jim—but his fingers fell short of his goal. Then the barrier between them evaporated—he reached through and Jim extended his hand at the same time. Their fingers met, their hands clasped together.

He awoke again, whispering, “I love you,” and then fell silent, content to simply enjoy the caress of Jim’s fingers, content to listen to the rhythm of Jim’s breathing and the sound of Jim’s heartbeat. Content to be silent and absorb the love and concern Jim was transmitting with his every touch. Content to just feel.

 

III. Enterprise 1701-A

 

“I have a gift for you.”

Kirk heard the open emotion in Spock’s voice, saw a look of pleased anticipation in Spock’s eyes, and smiled in response. There was no trace of hesitation or shame in Spock’s tone or expression.

A yeoman had unpacked for both of them hours ago, and now everything in their joint quarters about the Enterprise 1701-A was stowed and ready for their upcoming voyage. Spock removed a security box from a drawer and pressed his thumb against the lock. Responding to his biometric data, it slid open. He offered the box to Kirk.

Jim carefully removed the framed holographic image. It trembled in his grip; he blinked away the blurred image and blamed it on his vision. The holo had been taken on Reikos 7. There had been two years left in the first five-year mission, two years to live together before they would part in pain and misunderstanding.

It had been a cloudy day, Kirk recalled. Silver rain had fallen in fat, soft droplets just outside the restaurant where they had been seated. They had already finished their meal; they were lingering over tea. A native had clicked this holo of them, a common tourist practice on this world.

That future, those years of separation, had been unknowable when this image had been taken. They had been new together, just weeks into what Kirk was beginning to accept as a relationship he could stay in forever. Shore leave on Reikos had offered respite, several days alone to give them the chance to discover how much they had yet to learn about each other. A honeymoon, in old-fashioned terms. It had been perfect.

Kirk ran his thumb along the mahogany-colored treillan wood box-frame, the surface as smooth as he remembered, and studied the image. Spock’s face…. Spock’s face revealed so much. They were seated together, each leaning slightly toward the other. Spock’s gaze was focused entirely upon Kirk, and the glow in his eyes, the slight curve of his mouth, revealed so very much. Every austere line of that disciplined Vulcan face had softened. The intimacy of that indiscretion was as shocking as public nudity. More so.

He looked up to meet Spock’s gaze. “You always hated this picture.”

Spock raised an eyebrow and smiled. “That is quite a strong term.”

“But a true one.” Kirk offered a gentle smile. Despite Spock’s discomfort with this image, Kirk had refused to get rid of it. He’d kept it hidden inside a drawer, safe from any glances from visitors to his quarters.

That image…had vanished to flame, along with his silver lady.

He ran a finger along the sinuous curve of the dark red frame. There. That knot in the wood, that tiny imperfection just to the left of Spock’s face—that had not been there before. “It’s different.”

“Yes.”

Spock eyes held the same look as his holographic image did.

Everything in Kirk warmed to that sight. His fingers tightened on the frame. “How did you—”

“It is always advisable to back up important data. I included the image data with all our other personal material in one of the regular offship uploads.”

“Of course.” He grinned. “Efficient as always.”

Spock inclined his head at the compliment.

Kirk ran his thumb over the frame again, discovering other tiny imperfections. It was not the same, after all. The original had had flaws in the frame as well, only in different places. It was a copy—a replacement—like the ship they stood on now.

And Spock before him, moving, breathing, smelling the same as always—but also different.

Also new. And changed. In different places.

He stepped toward Spock, who closed the remaining distance between them and pulled him close. Kirk placed one hand protectively against Spock’s back. Rubbing his hand against the nubby texture of the Starfleet uniform, he stilled his hand against the place that had once been marked by the rough remnants of scars. Kirk’s fingers curled. It shocked him, each time he touched Spock now, to feel nothing but the smoothness of unmarred skin. Before, his fingers had been accustomed to that stutter of puckered skin where the trajectory of the flintlock bullet through Spock’s body had left behind a mark even McCoy’s best artistry couldn’t quite erase.

The scars didn’t exist anymore.

That didn’t matter.

And if there were times when he discovered Spock looking off into some further distance to some place where Kirk could not follow, and felt the whisper of different, unspoken gaps in their knowledge of each other….

None of that mattered.

Kirk opened the top drawer and started to put the holo inside, but Spock took his wrist, then gently pulled the holo out of his grasp. Kirk questioned him with his eyes. Spock glanced around, took a moment to rearrange the items on the display shelf, then placed the holo in the most prominent position. It locked into the magnetic track.

He turned and raised an eyebrow at Kirk. Kirk couldn’t stop grinning. “I have a gift for you, too.”

He had secured the stasis box in the office closet earlier, when Spock wasn’t around. Now, he removed the bulky casing and keyed the lock open. “This is actually a gift from your mother, as well.”

Spock looked at him, then inside the box with dawning wonder. With precise, careful motions he deactivated the stasis field and opened the box fully, revealing a lyre.

He carefully picked it up, then seated himself in the nearest chair, settling the instrument into the correct position. His gaze locked with Kirk’s. His hands found the strings. Tentatively at first and then with assurance, he began to play, and music shimmered across the air, pure, mathematically precise—and aching with intense emotion.

 

* * * * *

The corridors hummed with furious activity. Crewmembers, antigrav carts, workers of every kind moved in highly choreographed activity. The Enterprise was scheduled to leave spacedock at 0600, barely five hours hence.

They walked, side by side, through the hallways of the Enterprise 1701-A, and everything was new around them. When they walked out onto the bridge, the air was filled with a constant chatter of ship-to-shore communication. Uhura was already there, and Sulu, and several other familiar faces. Quick greetings were exchanged, then everyone re-focused on the work at hand.

Kirk felt, rather than saw, Spock’s gaze upon him, and turned to share a smile. Stepping toward the viewscreen, Kirk rested one hand on the railing. The other hand was loose and free. With just one movement he could touch Spock’s hand.

He didn’t. The electric contact between them shone bright, clear, open. It did not require touch for fulfillment. Kirk’s gaze was focused on the viewscreen and not on the man beside him, who filled so much more than his field of vision.

“She’s a good ship,” Kirk said suddenly.

“Indeed,” Spock replied.

Earth lay before them on the viewscreen, its great cities appearing as a latticework of lights upon the turning continents. They watched as the western seaboard of Northamerica crossed the line of the terminator and moved into dawn.


End file.
